Between Adventures
by SleepyFinch
Summary: Sherlock may be a genius, but not even he could have known that his absence would affect Watson as it did. SLASH. M for later chapters/safety.
1. Fabrication

**PLEASE READ! **Thank you thank you hello hi hey. This is my first fanfiction published here, and the first time I've published anywhere at all in about two or three years. If you haven't read the books then this is a tiny tiny bit of a spoiler, but most of this is chalked up to my imagination. I wont let you in on exactly what happens in the books and what doesn't, but we're assuming this takes place in some world that is a mix between Guy's Sherlock and Doyle's Sherlock. The narratives starts off basically after Sherlock and Moriarty tumble over off the balcony place at the end of AGoS. Please bare with my writing, I'm a bit rusty. This story is slash, mind you, but the slashy goodness doesn't start until about chapter 2 I think. I apologize ahead of time for the ridiculous first chapter! \(. ^ .)/ Thanks and nice to meet you all!

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The public must know of my tendency to chronicle things. I am a doctor and a military man and it is ingrained into my being to remember precise dates and times and events as clearly and as truthfully as humanly possible. Outside of my record keeping in my practice, which I have sold by this time, it is my duty to record the adventures of my friend, Sherlock Holmes. It is time once again to record our time together, but this time not in a fantastic way where I glorify our journeys and solved riddles. This time, it is crucial to understand what has happened in between the adventures.

My time with Mary was undoubtedly wasted. I spent most of my days doing business, which I continued more for the sake of being distracted than for the sake of income. The days I had no clients (or more so every waking moment I spent not doctoring) I thought about him. I had watched him take Moriarty down the falls with him, which weighed heavy on me until I received the package, which I assumed came from the man himself. It was a strange feeling, really. The pain in my heart had miraculously lifted at the sight of the small oxygen tank, though it was only minutes before my giddiness wore off and a new problem burdened me. Where was Holmes? What had happened? When would I be able to see him again?

There was a disgusting film that had settled over the city of London. Sherlock Holmes was nowhere to be seen and it seemed as though no one, save for Mycroft, had any doubts that he was dead. I am still bitter toward myself for not consulting Mycroft on this matter, seeing as he had undoubtedly pieced it all together for himself in a matter of seconds and could probably have told me his exact location. Leave it to my pride to prevent me from asking where my closest friend was. Sometime during this excursion Sherlock had so abruptly taken, Mary had fallen ill. Sometimes I think it must have been my own doing. Mary had always been so fragile and it was more than obvious that my detachment had taken it's toll on her. It was just that to what extent it had affected her I was never sure.

I tried what I could with Mary. I denied patients to tend to her and I spent my spare time at her bedside, though it shames me to admit that my mind was forever on Sherlock. Even in my own wife's downfall I was unable to get the bloody man out of my mind. Time and time again I have been told what a chivalrous military man and doctor I was, but inside I was really just a coward who had long ago become helplessly bound to the greatest detective in London, and likely all of the world. She withered slowly, her sad smile still a fresh memory. When I think of Mary my mind only jumps to her last few weeks, her sweet, sad eyes glistening despite her body's failure. I think that all of the while, Mary knew that it was Sherlock that came first in my life, and I could not feel guiltier about it. Mrs. Watson was a beautiful girl with the kindest disposition and such a right head on her shoulders. She should have had better from me.

The day of Mary's funeral had an especially peculiar impact on me. It was the year proceeding her death that I find particularly confusing and somewhat shameful. After attending the service I was inclined to venture back to the place I had not been since the case with Moriarty, the only place I thought I could find peace amongst the muddy waters of my mind; 221B Baker Street. My head was obviously not right for heading back there in the first place, but I was greeted warmly by Mrs. Hudson. She informed me that Mycroft had miraculously ventured to the apartment to speak to her himself. Supposedly, Mycroft had told Mrs. Hudson to keep the address exactly as Holmes had left it (which seemed fine by Mrs. Hudson for she was not prepared to touch anything in those rooms anyhow). This, of course, played into this next odd chapter of my life.

I started visiting Baker Street more and more often, Mrs. Hudson more than happy to see me. It was as if, even though Sherlock had been a burden to say the least, she too was somewhat out-of-tune when he was not there. We spent a few afternoons together throughout the year, she would prepare me tea and we would sit and make small talk, trying not to turn to the subject of our missing piece. Truth be told, I had become accustomed to life with both of them, not just Sherlock. Seeing Mrs. Hudson would prove comforting during that time period, though because of the events which took place, we prefer not to speak of any of the time she spent aware of my "condition," as it was. It must have been only out of pity that she refrained from sending me to a sanatorium, I'm sure.

Eventually I began staying in our old apartment during the day. I neglected my own practice and begun spending time rummaging through Sherlock's belongings (this part I heavily regret not refraining from). I tended to keep out of his more personal things, which were surprisingly few, and focused mainly on the information from our old cases. I studied him while he was gone. Despite the fact that I knew the man better than mostly likely anyone, I was consumed with recovering each day we spent together. There were so many wasted days that I had not recorded. So many moments we spent in the apartment or at dinner or at the opera that I left unwritten. Surely at the time I figured they were merely times to be lived and not relived in such a sentimental fashion, but after he was gone I regretted not writing down even the tiniest of interactions between us. I missed him and I missed him with my whole being.

Around the time that my habit of studying our partnership picked up, something strange, which I am still not able to explain myself, begun happening. Every so often I hear of a couple of cases that I, meaning me alone and not with Holmes, took on. At first, I chalked it all up to being so consumed with the old documents, I must've simply fabricated these times in dreams or in fantasies which were informed by the fresh dirt of our cases being kicked up. Yet, I have the strangest and most puzzling memories of these times. From the bits of my memory that I_ can_ cling to, Holmes was there with me as I solved these cases. I can vaguely recall Holmes being there and, as usual, being the crucial piece in the investigations, though this during this time there was something eerily different about him. Holmes kept his hands strangely out of the cases, giving instruction to me and the clients rather than piecing things together himself. It all seems like a faded dream I've had.

Being the partner of the man that I was, in fact, partner to, I had experienced my share of interesting phenomena. I once took a far-from-lethal dose of some poison, which would have no doubt been lethal if Holmes had not recognized the clever trap which I had almost walked into, during one of our cases. Hallucinations were something I was seldom subject to, but I can recognize the sensation. There is a constant feeling that something is askew, that something is unreal here. Immediately after being administered the small amount of poison, I recall Holmes leaning into me and staring me in the eyes, as if checking that I was alright. As I blinked, the colors in Holmes' face began to separate and rejoin in patterns which I had never seen, constantly fluctuating in a way I recognized as impossible. Despite this knowledge that what I had seen was, in fact, not really there, the vivacity of the hallucination kept me in some realm of disconnect. It wasn't real, but I couldn't act against it consciously.

Taking this all into consideration, it is by my grand deduction that I had spent some months hallucinating Holmes. As a medical man, I am well aware of the things that can trigger people, but I never thought that I would be one to succumb to them. Sherlock's "death," mysterious parcel, and then Mary's death quite possibly could have driven me mad. How I detest this theory, but how I have been taught to reason. Loss was something I preferred to keep stiff-lipped about, but it was obvious that these experienced affected me in some strange, psychological way.


	2. Boswell and Johnson

Hey guys. This community isn't really big on reviewing, is it? Or maybe it's just no one's read it. Anyways, I apologize for the first chapter. I feel like it should have been delved into a lot more, but I wanted it to be more of a recap on Watson's part. Upon going back and reading it, it sounds a bit awkward and shortened. This chapter doesn't skip so much information, but it covers less time. So, again, I apologize! Please read and review if you like it so far. Thanks.

The story picks up around early Spring, 1895. By this time I've lost track of most things in my life. My time spent at Baker Street and my own residence were blurred and I couldn't remember the date for the life of me. I hadn't taken any patients in some time, though how long it had been specifically I couldn't tell you. My health was poor, mentally and now physically, as I had little mind or money to feed myself and what have you. Most of the food and drink I consumed was brought to me by Mrs. Hudson, who would never accompany me into the rooms which I used to stay in, but would almost always insist on sitting with me for a short while. She was always a pleasant lady, but after Holmes' supposed "passing" she had been especially caring. It surprises me to look back on the fact that she never once suggested that I be admitted to a sanatorium. She saw me often enough to know that not all was right with me, and I haven't taken this up with her, but I sense that she simply had faith that I would come out of it sooner or later.

Sometimes I think I slept in my own residence but I'm quite sure I usually slept in my old room. I would occasionally venture into Holmes' room just to sit in his chair or to bask in the lingering smell of the man's tobacco and natural scent, but there were very few times where I would dare to touch any of his things. It had crossed my mind to lay in his bed for some reason, but these thoughts were usually held back (if I can claim to recall any of this correctly). Looking back, I despise how pathetic I sound when writing all of this out. A man like me, entirely consumed in the past and wholly unable to let go of something that should have been let go of. I'm not sure if I can say that I am glad I didn't let go of any of it, but I think I can say I was comfortable at the time wallowing in my own sadness. After Mary's death and after I cut myself off from nearly everything else, there was no one to stop me from falling into a spiraling mess of nostalgia and malaise. Most of this I can't recall properly, or I don't want to claim that I do because I think it is rather obvious that I do not. Despite all of this there are a few things I am positive I remember (and if I don't then I must still be currently living in a dream for they are events that have lead directly to my current state). The moments I am about to recall are true, and if not true than I am entirely blissful in my ignorant and increasingly mad state.

I awoke one morning to a terrible draft. There had been a thunder storm the night before and I was sure I had closed my window, but then again I tended to heavily doubt myself in every way by this time. This night I had spent curled in the arm chair in my own house (most night I did spend there I did not spend in the bed because the faint smell of Mary kept me up with guilt). Without any blanket, I curled around myself in a sad attempt to gather warmth. My tired mind was incapable of gathering my senses, but somewhere in my mind I recognized the smell of rain water on the ground and Spring and morning. Suddenly, I felt a change in the room. There is a certain feeling that we all must recognize; that feeling that you are being watched or that you are not alone. This feeling washed over me then and in a surprised state my eyes impulsively shot open. I did not see anything at first, but the feeling still remained.

"Always good to see you, Watson."

I said nothing. I figured it was a mere hallucination and I was prepared to fight this one off. I had never felt this way before. With tired bones and a heavy weight still on my body and mind, I slowly turned in the chair to face the matching one which sat across from it on the other side of the fireplace. There, sitting with one leg crossed and hands dangling casually from the front of the armrests, was, I thought, an apparition of Sherlock Holmes. Still, I said nothing.

"Why such the sad look in your eyes, old boy? I thought you'd be happier to see me, really." He said quickly, yet somehow lazily.

It was beginning to feel familiar. It did not simply feel like a vision, or if it was then my insanity must've reached a new level. My eyes closed and then opened again in a tired fashion. I searched his eyes for a sign of reality, of something unmistakable, but I had become lost in my dream world and could not differentiate properly.

"Well, if you're not going to say anything to me after such a long separation, Watson, I might as well leave. Or, maybe is it that you cannot believe your eyes?"

Now he grinned cheekily. Was he finally back?

"Holmes?" My throat sang softly.

It was a weak noise, and a sad attempt at words, but there was something so lovely and memorable about saying his name. Even through the sadness that must've been present in my voice, there was a twinge of hope. But maybe I really couldn't believe my eyes. After one year and multiple hallucinations, how could I be sure he was home again?

"Ah, there we are! Maybe I should have written before coming... but you know, I do enjoy a good surprise. Maybe I should have come to you at a more appropriate hour... say, Watson, have you been rifling through the apartment? Your sad attempts and placing everything back without impression lead me to believe you've gotten nostalgic since I've been gone,"

The more he spoke, the more I was beginning to think that he really was there.

"Holmes." I interrupted with.

He paused and raised his eyebrows, snapping his head up a bit in an attentive matter, but I had nothing to say yet.

"Holmes..." I spat out again, still with a sad weakness.

"My, I've never known you to be so dull in the morning. I haven't seen you in over a year and all you can manage is my name. Come now, man, speak up, I've got business to discuss with you!"

I furrowed my brow. He was here. He was really here. I shifted my body so that I was now sitting forward in the chair with my legs curled loosely toward my body so to face Holmes directly, only three or so feet separating us for the first time in so long. The cogs in my mind slowly began working again, the cobwebs and dust clearing faster than I was prepared for.

"Holmes!" I shouted, half in excitement half in anger, as I threw myself at him.

He drew back slightly in his chair as my hands landed on both of his shoulders, gripping surprisingly tight for so early in the morning. I froze awkwardly there, staring into the deep brown eyes I had missed so dearly. I didn't know what to do. I just needed to touch him, to make sure he was tangible. How do you prove something is not a mere hallucination?

"Yes, yes, Sherlock Holmes, you remember me, don't you? Fondly, I hope. By the by, I hope my disappearance didn't upset you too much. I was in Asia-"

I interrupted him with a swift punch to the right cheek. After a slight shift of the jaw and a bit of a breathy laugh, Holmes righted himself and looked off into the distance.

"Watson, where are your manners, that's no way to greet a friend." He added, a small smirk tugging on his mouth.

"You hope your disappearance didn't upset me too much?" I shouted as I shook his shoulders violently.

His eyes bobbed about for a second before resting to avoid me once again.

"You selfish bastard! Do you have even the slightest idea what my condition has been recently?" I yelled, my eyes wide and my grip still tight on the man.

"Oh, yes, about that, you've gone mad, have you? You always have been a bit fragile, you know. I wouldn't have been gone for so long had I know that Mary had passed, bless her soul."

The way in which Holmes so casually spat my unstable mental state and the death of my wife out infuriated me. Of course he knew! Upon returning to London he most likely pieced together everything I had been doing since he had been gone. Enraged, I jerked him nearly upright and then attempted to fling him to the ground. In my rage, I had forgotten that he was a skilled fighter, much more so than myself. Without much effort he managed to twist his arms about my own in such a way that it took a simple pivot of his foot to turn the tables and instead he ended up planting me firmly in the chair he had just been in.

"I'm going to have to ask you to calm down, my dear Watson. I know it's morning and you're not in your right mind, per se, but I've got important things to ask of you. And besides, you'd think that with how much you seemed to have, well, missed me, you'd be a bit friendlier." He explained in a way which I read as slightly condescending.

My temper was still burning, but it was slowly being overtaken by an extreme feeling of happiness to finally see him. In some strange rush of emotions which I am not fully able to articulate, I found myself once again throwing myself at Holmes. This time, though, my arms wrapped tightly around his waist and he stumbled backward into my original seat. My face pressed against his abdomen and my legs collapsed, my body nestling between his legs as I kneeled on the ground. If this did prove to be a hallucination, it was the most convincing one yet. I could not risk it now. I could not risk doubting him if he really was there. I had missed him so much that it had literally driven me mad. I could not risk letting him pass as a figment of my clouded mind.

"You bloody selfish bastard." I whimpered out.

My voice seemed to have turned into a strangled sob before I could really comprehend what was happening.

"You sociopathic, arrogant, inconsiderate bastard."

Without a reply, I felt a hand come to rest on the back of my head. It was a silent sign that he knew, in some way, that he deserved those words. My eyes began tingling with the sensation of tears, which was something I hadn't even been able to conjure at Mary's funeral service.

"Are you really here, Holmes?"

"I am really here, my Boswell."


	3. In My Bones

Thank you for the reviews, guys! I'd love to receive more, you know. Am I moving too fast? Am I staying in character? The rest of the story in only loosely written so I'd love feedback of any kind. Let me know, please and thank you.

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We rested like that for a miraculous amount of time. Holmes' hand still sat on my head, softly stroking with the pad of his thumb. When we lived together it was seldom that we were comfortable touching each other like this, unless we were fighting, then we were more than comfortable with wrestling each other until one of us turned blue in the face. But it was different now. It was inexplicable, really. I had never had a reunion with someone such as the one I shared with Sherlock. There was a peculiar feeling about this all; how my body rested on his, how his fingers calmed me, how neither of our bodies tensed when in such contact with another man's. None of these things nagged at me and I somehow knew they didn't nag at Holmes, either. It was the first calm I had felt in so long and it felt better than I could imagine. After some time, it began to rain. The sound of Spring flooding freely into the room through my open window. Neither of us moved to close it. I did not care if this was not real. I did not care in the least.

"I'm going to have to ask you to return to Baker Street with me, Watson," He spoke softly.

I didn't say anything back at first. How was one supposed to reply to such a question from such a friend. Could things really go back to that? Could I really transition back into my old life?

"You know I can't leave you here, old boy." He continued, still softly petting my hair.

"This is my home now, Holmes. I can't just abandon it like that." I said quietly.

"Well, then, you'll just have to sell it." Holmes replied matter-of-factly.

I did not reply for some time. There was not much to say. As much as I wanted to argue with him -put up a fight against the way he so naturally made decisions for me- I knew that it was all I wanted. There was nothing that I desired more than to leave this place behind me and stay at Baker Street with Holmes again.

What did we do now? What were we doing? What was Holmes' grand scheme after events such as this? How could I even be sure of anything at such a time? It was one thing to decide to start my life with the man again, but I had to make sure he was real in the first place. I lifted by body off of him, my arms finally letting go of his warm body, which was devastating and reassuring all at one. One hand rested on the seat of the chair on the outside of his leg, while the other came up to rub at my heavy eyes. When I looked back up to Sherlock I found him scanning my face sadly. It was not often that I could see soft emotions in his eyes like that. He was a distant friend at times, even at these times. I stared back intently. Was Holmes really in front of me? Why was I spending so much valuable time doubting him like this? He had just returned and I was already tired of my mad inner thoughts.

I stood, not wanting to confront myself with such thoughts anymore. My body turned away to pace the room briefly.

"So what is it now, then?" I asked, almost irritated.

"What ever do you mean?" He replied, crossing his legs casually, as if I hadn't just spent a prolonged amount of time in a pathetic state in his lap.

"You can't hardly expect things to fall back into place, Holmes." I drawled, in disbelief that he would assume as much.

"Why not? I'm here, you're here, Mary's gone, oh, and where is Gladstone at present?"

I stood with my gaze lowered, a pang of guilt coursing through my entire being. Mary. What on this entire Earth made him think that mentioning my considerably recently deceased wife was acceptable? Did death not phase him?

"Did I say something wrong?" He asked, feigning innocence.

"Have you so little a grasp on the situation at present!" I shouted, my hands shooting up to run through my slightly unruly hair.

Holmes released a high-pitched chuckle.

"What more is there to grasp, my friend?"

"What more is there to grasp! You have nearly single-handedly ripped apart my entire life! You disappeared for a year after hinting that you were possibly alive, my wife of a ridiculously short period of time died -presumably because of my emotional neglect while so absorbed in you- I've stopped working, I've stopped eating, and, let's not forget, I've started hallucinating! What in God's name makes you think that you can just come back to London and convince me to sell my home and resume living with you in the very place I've been driven mad in!"

My voice had raised quite a bit by now, my hands gesturing in front of my as my frustration steadily increased. Holmes must have realized his mistake, though he showed no signs in his expression, because he suddenly rose, striding the few steps it took to reach me.

"My dear, dear, Watson, you seem to be a bit fragile at present." He said, resting his hands on my elbows, his face in a fake pout as if speaking condescendingly to an upset child.

I ripped my arms outward as to jostle him off of me. At the slightest sign of acknowledging a mistake, he covers it up with his usual arrogance. Why was it so impossible for him to empathize? Sometimes it really did seem as if the man was a full-blown sociopath. It was just my luck that I would become so irreversibly entwined with a man who would seemingly never understand the emotions that others could feel. My anger was now boiling out of me in the form of tears, the water gathering on my lower eyelids and blurring my vision. I did not want to cry in front of the man.

"What in the hell is wrong with you, Holmes?" I questioned, my voice wavering dangerously.

He said nothing, the sarcastic look on his face softening into one of slow realization.

"Can you not understand how you've affected me? Can you not grasp all of the things wrong with this? I know you are virtually incapable of being empathetic, but for once could you please do me the honor of trying to feel what I've come to feel?"

I felt the first tear slip down my cheek and curl under my chin. I wiped at my eye stubbornly with the back of my hand, trying to rid myself of the damned things. The look on Holmes' face was unreadable to me, but then, my powers of observation were nowhere near those of the very man I was trying to read.

"If I'm going to be residing with you again, Holmes, you're going to have to open up that stupid, genius, enigmatic brain of yours and work with me. I can't live with you if you're going to treat me like you always have,"

"Watson," He started.

"Holmes! I'm not done, yet." I shouted, throwing my hands out in front of me in an attempt to show him I was serious.

"Don't think that just because you've been gone and just because I've been entirely torn up by your leaving that you don't have to change. If you want me to move back in and if you want me to be your partner again you need to change, Holmes. I can't spend the rest of my life with a man who refuses to take blame for anything, especially when he's affected my life in unimaginable ways. No normal person would put up with this from a friend, even the best of them. My emotions are inherently connected to your actions and I'm acknowledging this now and I'm letting you know that you need take some responsibility for what you've done to me!"

He stood silently now, no sign of impending retort on his end. His mouth twisted into the slightest bit of frown I could imagine, but I believe that's what had made it all the more striking. This was his way of showing his feelings, I had come to learn. There was something still and quiet, despite the increasingly loud sound of rain filling the room. Something did not feel right. I could not place it. Maybe the feeling was simply the feeling of Holmes finally seeing something through my eyes for once. Maybe it was the embarrassment of shedding tears in front of him. Or, was this simply another fabricated situation I was putting myself in? I stared back into his eyes, determined to decipher the reality of the moment. My mind was probably just projecting the images which I wished to see. Maybe I was still sleeping and it was only a dream. Who was to tell me that this was real? And if there were such a person, what would convince me that he was also not just another delusion? Before I knew it, my mind was racing with self-doubt, my anxiety increasing rapidly.

"I'm here, John." Holmes said flatly, his eyes dulling slightly.

I winced then, caught slightly off-guard. I was not expecting his voice to calm me as it did. He could see I was doubting him. Luckily for him, real or not, he was able to avoid the conversation and the questions I had just posed, if not somewhat rhetorical.

"I know." I replied softly.

Holmes' mouth pinched at the corner slightly, a disapproving frown I had come to recognize.

"Don't lie, my dear Watson."

"How in the world would you deduce such a thing as a human doubting another's existence?" I asked, a sad smile tugging at my mouth.

"Deducing things of the sort is not something anyone, not even myself, can explain entirely. It is not so much observing things as it is feeling what you've become used to over the years you have spent with an individual. Doubt is simply something I've come to recognize immediately from you, my friend. Even without the subtlest facial movements I can feel it in my bones when something is not right with you. My time away has not diminished, even slightly, my ability to automatically read you."

As he spoke, he leaned in slowly, as if inspecting my eyes, searching for a trace of something. He must have thought I was stricken with irreparable insanity.

"If you can feel it in your bones," I began, casting my gaze downwards as not to make prolonged eye contact while having such a personal conversation.

"What took you so long to return?"

I glanced back up then. And next, without any warning at all, other than the soft noise of clothes rustling, his hands found their way around me. The strangest, most familiar sensation of foreign lips pressing against mine surprised me enough that I jerked back, if only slightly. One of his hands gently braced my head by resting on my cheek, while the other slipped onto my ribcage long before I had time to understand the situation. By the time I had registered the quick pressure pressing against my lips, it was gone and the man was pulling back. His hands still rested on me, but his face was now staring back at me, convinced that somehow I would know this meant he was real.


	4. Return

Hello! I'm so so sorry for the long wait for this chapter. I've been busy recently, as well as a bit stuck on this chapter. I'm really debating whether or not I should make this lengthier or if I should cut to the chase. I think I've got it in me to delve into it all, but I'm afraid of boring those of you waiting for the story to speed up. So, I apologize for the wait! Thank you all so so much for the reviews! I have found your feedback very encouraging!

P.s. I also want to apologize for the atrocious formating of this story. I've not yet figured out how to work publishing stories here. I'm sure I'll figure it out soon enough. Until then, I am sorry for the improper formating.

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I pulled back from the surprising embrace, my lips going numb. It was as though I could not take in what had just happened. My mind could not, in any way, process this unexpected euphoria that coursed through my veins. It was like some ungodly mix of a sedative and a stimulant all at once. I could feel my eyelids flutter impulsively but I was still too shocked to be embarrassed at this point. What in the world had Holmes done to me? My lips twitched ever so slightly, making a poor attempt to ask questions which I had not yet been able to form. Holmes stared back at me with a steady, yet somewhat panicked, gaze.

"You must excuse me, good doctor." He breathed out as he turned and made his way around me, heading for the door.

I was still speechless and confused and consumed with an indescribable feeling. What had come over me? Holmes could not possibly walk out after this. This moment could not have been real, surely?

"Holmes." I barked out shakily.

The soft sound of the man's body shifting slowly ceased. I did not turn to face him, but I could feel that his hand was hovering over the doorknob, waiting to excusing himself. Just like that, he would have walked out on the situation at hand, unless I had made the attempt to stop him that I did. The feeling of euphoria was wearing off and an incredibly heavy sense of sadness fell over my whole body. The emotions that I had gone through in just this one morning all came crashing down on me. In some fit of desperation, I reached for him, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him in close to me. My arms wrapped around his torso, regaining the physical contact which I was unaware I required.

"Please," I muttered into his shoulder.

"Please, Holmes. I'll return to Baker Street with you. You cannot leave here without me."

Just as before, he simply raised a single hand. His palm rested in the small of my back, which proved to be a strange sign of relief. Holmes let out a shaky breath, as if he had been holding it in. It was a rare thing for him to act so impulsively as to walk out on me when it was obvious that that was the last thing he should do. Something had come over him. What had happened to us?

"Come, Watson. It's time for us to return home." He spoke softly to me.

.

We returned to Baker Street before an hour had passed. I packed a small selection of my belongings, as well as some clothes, between a bag and a trunk (and, of course, remembering to pack my typewriter), which Holmes and I had transported by hansom. The entire time that I was gathering my things, Holmes sat in the armchair in front of the fireplace, staring blankly into the old ashes that rested within. We did not speak a word to each other the entire time, though it was not an uncomfortable silence. It was a combination of sadness and relief that I was going to be moving back into Baker Street, though I still found myself trembling with nerves. It was high time I left the place Mary and I once shared together. It was once such an idyllic image, yet it was crushed so thoroughly by my own hand. Or, was it Holmes' hand that had done the destroying?

Upon opening to door, Mrs. Hudson rushed forward, clasping her hands tightly. She did not want to smile, but I could tell of her static joy.

"Both of you are back to stay, then?" She spoke, her voice louder than it usually was.

Holmes gave a faux smile, his eyes crinkling in a manner which I read as obligatory.

"Yes, dear nanny, we're back to stay." Holmes spat quickly.

He wasted no time in padding up the stairs, carrying my trunk as if it were nothing. It was a mystical sort of sight to see, Holmes once again heading up the stairs to our rooms before me, his somewhat unruly hair bouncing with each step. I took a moment to appreciate the familiar thing in front of me. My stomach twisted in a happiness I had not felt in what seemed like centuries. I had forgotten that I was holding my bag under an arm and my typewriter in it's case in the other.

"Doctor," Mrs. Hudson piped up.

I turned to face her, slightly embarrassed, as it was probably quite obvious that I was momentarily caught up in something about Holmes.

"Will you be alright?" She asked in a motherly tone.

I hadn't really thought of it before. Would I be alright? What did it take for an individual to be "alright?" Maybe it was all situational.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson." I lied, smiling the best I could for her.

It wasn't so much a lie as it was a defense mechanism. There was no possible way I would answer her with an "I don't know," which really would be more honest, because she would certainly begin to worry again and start asking questions. If I could control it, I would put her mind at ease. Holmes was back, I was back with him, everything was as it should be. How I wished it was only that easy.

Without missing a beat, I hurried up the stairs, ignoring the tricky way my limp affected my ability to climb stairs while carrying heavy objects. It was a small obstacle to overcome, though. When I reached the top of the stairs, I would be officially home. I would be home with my best friend, my typewriter, and all of our old things. Now it was just a matter of settling back in.

The door at the top of the stairs swung open, Holmes reaching forward to grab my belongings from me. Before I really had much time to object and insist on carrying them myself (which I was very capable of) Holmes was hoisting them back through the doorway. I left out a small breath, just as eager as Holmes appeared to be to start our lives over. My leg bothered me a bit after the trip up the stairs, but it was nothing that came near to stopping me from continuing back into our rooms. I could hear Holmes somewhere within, shuffling around my things amongst his own belongings.

When I entered the room, it felt different. I had been there since Holmes had been gone, but it was in some mad, terrible desperation to relive what I had once lived. But this time, it felt good. It felt good to hear Holmes causing a slight ruckus, to feel his genuine presence once again, to smell his scent suspended in the air. For a brief moment, everything was right. But it was a fleeting feeling, as my nerves proved to get the best of me. There were many questions left unanswered and, knowing Holmes, the answers wouldn't be easily coaxed out.

As I stood in the doorway, staring about the room in thought, Holmes had begun pacing back and forth across the room, seemingly in search of something.

"You know, Watson, you really are terrible at covering your tracks. I can tell exactly what you've been doing in here since I've been away. As I've said, your ability to leave a place with minimal impression is really rather insufficient." He mentioned as he flipped through papers and opened drawers.

I was suddenly quite embarrassed. It had taken a while, but the realization that he knew basically all that I had been doing while he was away had finally sunk in. It was quite improper to spend countless hours in someone else's home without their knowledge, and it was especially improper to root through their things almost obsessively. Though, if we were considering what was proper and improper, I could easily argue that the actions Holmes had taken earlier in the day were by far more improper than anything I had done.

My cheeks must have gone quite red after such thoughts, as not only could I feel my cheeks burning, but Holmes had stopped to look at me, papers gripped loosely in his hand. I tried to mouth something out, but the memory of the kiss Holmes and I had just so recently shared was still too fresh in my mind. I wanted to be disgusted, and maybe somewhere inside I was, but to be honest I had never felt such a simple pleasure in my entire life. The euphoric sensation sent an aftershock through my body as I gaped stupidly, locking eyes with the man.

"I say are you having another of your hallucinations?" Holmes stepped over to me, inspecting my face.

"Oh." He stated, almost awkwardly.

I'm assuming that he could tell by the look on my face that I was not hallucinating, but was more embarrassed than anything else. My eyes shifted uncomfortably away from his. Holmes tried to pass the situation off by changing the subject.

"Let's get you settled in, then."

.

Holmes and I spent hours situating ourselves again. We didn't so much as arrange and rearrange everything as we did become familiar with it all again. We went through boxes and drawers and cabinets and files, the memories of our times together reemerging. It was true that I had been living in these items and documents for what seemed like an eternity, but the memories seemed more vivid with Holmes back again. There was someone to share them with now. I was no longer faced with sitting alone in the rooms, helplessly scanning over pages and pages of words that only served to give me superficial images of times I could never truly relive.

I think that that was why I began to go mad. I wanted to relive the moments with Holmes more than anything else, but it was impossible. There were no new memories to be had, either. There were to be no more adventures together, risking our lives recklessly in hopes of catching up with tangled webs of mysterious events. There were to be no more trips to the picture gallery or to the opera or to restaurants together. There were to be no more talks while riding in hansoms or walking down the streets. It all seemed so distant, yet it was the only thing I wanted to live for anymore.

But here we were, sitting on the floor together, going through files on criminals we had caught long ago. Clippings of newspapers and tickets and letters and written documents strewn around, surrounding us with the tangible evidence of our friendship over the years. Yet, I still regretted not holding onto the personal moments more. Pages upon pages I had written, dedicated mostly to our professional endeavors, with little added about our friendship. Though, I could not dwell on these thoughts. I was finally beginning to feel happy again, despite how uncertain everything still seemed. Just this once, I was prepared to live without stopping my own happiness.

"Ah! Remember this one, Holmes? That bumbling James Ryder fellow who had fed the gemstone to the goose!" I chuckled out.

We laughed over the case for a good while. At the time, the case didn't seem so humorous, really. It seemed very intriguing and puzzling, but now it all seemed so light-hearted. How good it felt to be able to laugh about things again with him, just to ignore everything that had happened in the past year and remember our successes.

It went like this with cases upon cases, which brought up an equal amount of memories from the times in between. We laughed until our sides ached and our cheeks hurt, our eyes gathering childish tears of laughter in our eyelashes which we wiped away with our hands. My stomach felt warm and it seemed that I was incapable of letting my smile falter. I glanced up at Holmes, a smile not too dissimilar to mine plastered on his face. Seeing him so happy was refreshing, his clothes slightly disheveled and his hair tousled gently and his face creased with laughter. And then suddenly my laughter began to fade and my smile began to devolve back into a soft smirk. Holmes looked up as he noticed my laughter had ceased.

"Something wrong, old boy?" He asked, rubbing his eye with the palm of his hand.

"No. No, nothing's wrong, Holmes. It's just good to see you again. It's been far too long."

He cleared his throat at his smile began to fade as well. He leaned back in his hands, his legs crossed in front of him.

"Far, far too long, Watson." He focused his gaze out in front of him, gazing distantly at the mess of documents we had made.

"About earlier today," He began.

"No, don't. It's already forgotten." I replied, already knowing that he was referring to what had happened back at my old home.

"I wasn't about to apologize, you know. I've got a lot of that to do, I suppose, but I am not prepared to apologize for kissing you."


	5. Louder Than Anything

PLEASE READ! So some of this chapter might make your kind of squirmy and not good feeling, and I apologize for that! I didn't think it would get this unsettling, but you'll have to bear with it just for this chapter. So, just as a warning, this chapter might make you really not happy after reading it all. Also! Thank you all for the fantastic reviews! I appreciate it so incredibly much.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"If I didn't want to do it, I wouldn't have." Holmes told me, matter-of-factly.

I gazed at him, bewildered. My cheeks and ears began burning again, this time tenfold.

"I may have misjudged the timing of said kiss, but I had decided, shortly upon learning of your so-called 'condition,' that there was nothing I wanted more than to return to London. For you."

My eyes widened and I found that my entire body was now tense. Where had any of this come from? This was unlike Holmes. Or, the subject matter, at least, was something Holmes never touched upon. The way he went about explaining it was very much like him. A strange feeling crept over me as he spoke. It felt warm, but almost uncomfortable. Like I was having a great rush of adrenaline, but for no reason.

"If you think that I hadn't pieced together your feelings about our friendship, you are sorely mistaken. You may not even have really come to the conclusion yourself, my dear boy, but I am more than aware that we are bound together permanently, regardless of where one or the other goes. The entire time I was making my way about Asia, as well as the time I had spent in France, I was ever taken over by thoughts of you and our time here together. When I heard that you were not exactly in good shape, mentally that is, I quickly put the situation together. It was only logical that I come back to be here, in our rooms, with you. Though, I did imagine Gladstone in the picture by now. I've got some things to run by the hound," Holmes began trailing off, his gaze disconnecting from mine, obviously aware of my level of confusion.

"H-Holmes." I mentally struck myself for stuttering like a buffoon.

He brought his stare back up to my face hesitantly. It was far too strange, this situation. Yet, it was not unwelcomed.

"Right. You seem rather overwhelmed. Maybe it's best if you take a rest and have some time to think about things, as I'm aware you require." He stated, shifting himself in preparation to stand.

"Holmes, don't just keep walking away from our conversations like this." I pleaded, leaning toward him and grabbing his shirtsleeve.

"I don't really think one person delivering a short monologue as the other stares dumfounded constitutes as a conversation, but if you insist." He said, settling back into his former position.

I drew in several shaky breaths, my hand still gripping the cloth that wrapped gently around his bicep. What was this incredible feeling welling up inside of me? Is this what Holmes was getting at? Was this the inescapable feeling I had for him yet was just now realizing? It almost made me nauseous, my internal workings being set slightly off by the sudden concepts introduced to me so abruptly. He had been thinking about me while he was gone. He had told me in some sort of belittled confession that my strange feelings were not unmatched. There was more to be said and we both knew it, but it was seemingly impossible to say.

"What is it, then, that you're suggesting?" I asked, looking back and forth between his eyes, hoping to find the answers without the words.

"Watson, you know my methods. How you have yet deduce the feelings we have for each other is the greatest mystery I've ever encountered." Holmes breathed out shakily.

"So, what you're saying..." I didn't have it in me to finish the sentence.

It was all far too much. The space between us began closing, my grip on his shirt still tight as ever.

"I love you, and you, alone, are the only thing that I have ever loved." Holmes' eyes flicked down to my mouth and then back up to my eyes.

There was an energy coursing through my body that made me feel like ten men. I felt as if I could sprint forever and never tire. I felt as if I could yell louder than I had ever yelled in my entire life. I felt indescribable. Speechless. And then Holmes moved a hand, painfully slowly yet altogether too fast, to my waist. His body twisted to bend his torso over my own. Our bodies lowered together ever slightly before our lips connected for the second time.

And then suddenly I let everything go. My emotions burst forth, Holmes' lips against mine acting as some give in a dam that held back the largest ocean. My hand held so tightly onto his shirt that I could feel my nails digging into my palm through the fabric. My other hand had slipped up to his neck, resting so heavily I did not register it as my own hand. His hand that was not gripping my waist was holding him up, enabling him to shelter me from the whole world, it seemed.

The papers underneath us shuffled, becoming disorganized and bent, but they did not matter for the moment. At that moment all that mattered was lips against lips, bodies against bodies, and breath against breath. And then, in the most natural fashion I could fathom, Holmes slipped his tongue past my lips as I breathed, brushing smoothly against mine. Our lips began working with each other, shifting and changing with our tongues as my body began writhing underneath his.

He pressed me down gently, lowering me onto the documents beneath. Holmes gently brought my lower lip between his and I arched my back, squeezing my eyes shut as tight as possible. There was never such an overwhelming feeling as that which I was feeling. Everything was slipping away and I was intricately aware of every bit of physical contact we were making. The tense warmth in my core was so powerful it almost hurt. It was if all of my bottled frustration was rising to the surface all at once. It felt beautiful.

Of all the wondrous things I had seen in the world and all of the happiest feelings I had felt, nothing came close to that moment. The moment where we did not just kiss, but where we were accepting of it. Where we both were conscious of the reasons we had been tied together. Every perfect day and every moment to breathe and every hitch in my throat couldn't compare. Our hands strayed, allowing themselves to feel the other in a way that we were never able to. It was just as seeing something upside-down for the very first time. It was the same thing, but it was all new, and it was so gratifying.

"Holmes," I whispered, if only by accident.

His lips had moved from mine across my jawline, and then to my neck, the warm sensation forcing me to adjust the angle at which I bent my head. My mouth gaped slightly, attempting to take in breaths bigger than my lungs were capable of holding. Holmes' right hand pressed my hip into the floor, while his left wrapped it's fingers around my ribcage, his thumb running up and down my torso continuously. My hands, in contrast, cluelessly and impulsively wandered throughout his back, his shoulders, his arms, his neck, his hair. Somewhere in the commotion Holmes had planted one of his legs between mine, his knee rubbing harshly along my thighs as he moved.

Somewhere, in the back of my mind, all of the violin melodies Holmes had ever played melded together. The sound was some unreal mixture of the Spring rain, of Holmes' voice, of typewriter keys, of a bow straining itself to continue playing. The sound was so beautiful. Maybe it shouldn't have been, but it was, in it's own way. It wasn't unpleasant at all. It was right. But, suddenly, I noticed tears streaming down my temples. I opened my eyes and found only a blurry sight of the dim light on the ceiling.

I blinked furiously, giving a small chuckle. Why was it that I was crying? I was so happy. I had never really cried tears of joy in my life until now. Out of laughter, yes, but this was pure joy. It was like feeling happiness for the first time. Holmes moved to look down at me softly, an impulsively sad look on his face as he saw my tears. He fluidly bent down and kissed at the corner of my eye as my tears continued slipping past my eyelashes. There was not a need for talking anymore. There were no misunderstandings. No disagreements. No time wasted on words. Holmes rolled his body to lay next to mine and both of us turned in toward each other. My tears kept coming, even as I looked into his eyes and felt as happy as I had ever felt in my entire life. I think I fell asleep well before Holmes, but it was comfortable.

.

I awoke in the morning to the cold light filtering through the window of our flat. My eyes opened with some effort, the much-needed sleep still holding onto me gently. A sudden rush of warmth flooded my stomach and I was surprisingly and inexplicably happy. Then the memories of the evening before came back, a surge of joy shooting up through my core, making my eyelids flutter rapidly. And then, as soon as it had flooded over me, the euphoria ebbed away, leaving me feeling strangely empty. There were no arms around me, no Holmes in front of me, no noise in the room save for the sound of muffled birds chirping outside of the window.

And then it was cold. It was cold and empty. I moved to sit up, wrapping my arms around my torso in attempt to console myself. Where was Holmes? Why was it so cold? I stood, prepared to scour the flat for the man. The night before had to have been real. I wouldn't accept anything else at this point for it was far too painful. For such a tired body, I moved incredibly quickly. I barged through the space at a rate which alarmed even myself. He had to be in his study.

With some haste, I threw open the doors of Holmes' study, my eyes attempting to adjust with the incredibly dark room. The man had a terrible habit of keeping the curtains drawn, even on gloomy days such as this where the light was less abrasive. I pried my eyes open as wide as I could, desperately sifting through the darkness. My feet stumbled me in clumsily, my mind not fully connected to my muscles at that hour.

The farthest corner was crowded with darkness, but even beyond it I could sense something there. It was possible that Holmes was hiding in the darkness, was it not? 'He must be playing a game' I thought, remembering the times where he so cruelly toyed with me in such ways. Maybe he was in the darkness. Yet, there was no noise in this room. Only the soft noise of my feet shuffling every so often against the rug. Any move I made was amplified in this space.

So, for some reason, I stepped toward the dark corner, the most vague shapes shining in the endless pitch.

"Holmes...?" I breathed out, afraid to speak too loudly in such a place.

And then I heard the most distinct noise. The most unmistakable noise and one that I had come to hear more times than any man should. The tense and intense sound of a bone straining. It squealed as bones do when they are near breaking, the noise almost like that of a bending tree branch. But it was worse than that. It was much more startling than a simple branch weighing down. Then, the snap. The sudden and disgusting snap of bone which still makes me squirm even to this day.

I jumped back then, the noise itself making me yelp. Almost the split second after the noise shattered the quiet room, a figure moved in the darkness. I was confused and scared and was incapable of deciphering the events that were unfolding in such a small moment. The poorly lit figure seemed to be moving closer, but it was only an awkward slump that I could make out. Then the figure fell forward, reaching at me from the darkness that still consumed the area.

With a loud thud the shape hit the ground and it was only then that I recognized the mangled thing as Sherlock Holmes. My eyes snapped to the figure as I stumbled backward, trying with all of my being to distance myself from the situation. His neck. His neck was broken. His neck was so twisted and his head, though I could not see his face, was misplaced terribly atop his body. It was not alive. It was not moving. It was broken and dirty and unpleasant. I shut my eyes.

But just when I thought the silence had come back a new noise disrupted the terrible happening. The noise could be likened to that of living bones. The snaps and creaks and thuds all combining into a continuous menagerie of gut-wrenching bodily sounds. It flooded the space around me and all I could do was keep my eyes shut and cover my ears. I wanted to distance myself from this horrible, horrible thing that was happening.

I attempted to run, maybe half backward and half forward, but I made it barely two feet as I stumbled into a chair. The chair knocked into a table and sent all of the objects that sat on it to the ground, shattering and clanging and mixing with the noise which I could only assume was that terrible huddled mess that I thought I once recognized shifting toward me. It was coming after me, whatever that terrible thing that was not Holmes was.

I fell to the ground just as an object from the table, my own body thudding as my knees and elbows hit the floor. I was still covering my ears and my eyes were still clamped shut and I was shouting and pleading. My body shook, terror gripping every bit of muscle it could and drawing me into myself. I yelled desperate and pitiful cries, asking the dark thing to go away and asking someone to help me leave this terrible room, but it felt that nothing would come.

But then, as a glow fly illuminating smoothly in the black, a comforting hand rested on my shoulder. Somehow, it felt good.


	6. Knowledge and Impulse

PLEASE READ! Hello everyone! I am so sorry that this chapter was so ridiculously delayed! I have been attempting to have what people call "a life" recently and I'm not quite sure how I feel about all the time I've spent away from my messy hovel of a bedroom. Anyway, thank you all for being so patient and lovely! The reviews definitely motivated me to continue the story and I could not thank you enough for your kind words. Please enjoy!

-Finch

.

The noise ceased then. An ever-familiar yet constantly craved presence then blanketed me.

"John."

Holmes' voice was muffled by my hands, which I refused to remove.

"John..."

His fingers tensed around my shoulder, attempting to bring me back into the real world. My own fingers uncurled slowly from around my head, the surprisingly quiet sounds that surrounded me returning. At the small hint that I was coming to, Holmes gripped both of my shoulders, gently pulling my body from it's tightly wound position. As my body slowly rose, my eyelids pried open. It wasn't very often that Holmes addressed me by my first name. It was always "Watson" or "Doctor" or "old boy," but rarely was it "John." It was a warm feeling when he used my name, though. Holmes lowered his head just a bit in attempt to catch my eye. I could tell he was worried. Scared, even.

"Holmes," My voice came out raspy and broken as our eyes connected.

I gripped his shoulders and wrenched my body into his, the comfort I felt in being back in the real world overwhelming me. There was only an underlying feeling of guilt that I had hallucinated in such a way. I felt so pathetic, like a hopeless madman. How Holmes was not disgusted with me was a mystery. He pressed me close into him, my face resting in the crook of his neck. My lungs felt as if they were going to collapse. That terrible, disgusting thing I had seen was not Holmes. He was here and his bones were intact and his body parts were placed firmly and correctly. My body coursed with unbelievable relief, one of my hands reaching up to roam about in his hair at the base of his neck. There was nothing broken and there was nothing wrong anymore. There were no terrifying noises of bones cracking and shifting. The only noise was Holmes' breathing against my own.

"God..." I muttered out, directly into his collarbone.

"It's alright, my dear boy. Everything is fine now." He told me quietly.

My hand still wandered through his hair, wrapping his soft curls throughout my fingers. Holmes knew just as well as I did that everything was not fine. He was too far from stupid to believe that things were "fine" for a single moment. Comforting words only mean so much when they are being said simply to be said. The happiness I felt with him there was dulled by the knowledge that I was still being held captive by these terrible visions. Did it not make sense for them to cease upon his return? The very situation that had driven me to madness was now repaired. He was back now, was he not? Or was it that he had never come back at all? Perhaps I was simply stewing in my ever-increasing insanity and these hallucinations would never stop. But how painful it was to imagine that he was not really here with me. I put it out of my mind for the time being.

I clenched my eyes tightly and inhaled once more before removing myself from Holmes. The absence of warmth, I suddenly realized, made the departure a bit harder than it had already been. It was just that I did not want to be a pitiful mess on the man, for God's sake. The fact that he supposedly had feelings for me did not make it appropriate for me to become a broken, hopeless parasite. After distancing myself from him somewhat, I found it hard to make eye contact. I was painfully embarrassed by this point and he just sat there, watching me worriedly like at any moment my limbs would fall off and he would have to catch them before they hit the floor and shattered. I ran a hand over my eyes, awkwardly avoiding the man in front of me. There was an uncomfortable air. He hadn't asked, but I knew he wanted to know what I had seen.

"It was nothing." I told him.

See, Sherlock Holmes was a master at deduction, but he could not deduce the situation if it had not actually been there. What I saw was my own fabrication entirely and there would be no way that Holmes would ever know what I saw unless I told him. And so I didn't. He stared at me with his brow slightly furrowed. We weren't looking at each other, but I knew exactly what he looked like at that precise moment. His body stiff and strangely proper, his mouth pursed so slightly that maybe no one (save for me) could recognize it, his brow knit so gently it might look as if he were only a bit angrily curious. It was his way and I was still so familiar with it. He let a huff out of his nostrils, a thing he did every so often when he was in thought. I wanted to embrace him again. I wanted to collapse into him once more and find solace in him, but it was not a privilege I would allow myself at that moment.

"I believe I need a bit of time, Holmes..." I began, looking up heavily into his eyes.

"Time, yes." He noted, nodding quickly, his mouth twitching sadly.

I knew he did not understand handling emotions yet. The Holmes that everyone saw was not Holmes. He was a master of faking emotions. He was undoubtedly good at picking up a persona even from the tiniest opportunity to observe an individual, but that was seemingly all he knew about "emotions". All anyone ever saw, save for me, was a facade he had learned to so perfectly piece together, purely from experience. His replies were nothing more than learned responses from the things he had gathered while dealing with other (truly emotional) people. Holmes was not used to "feelings" outside of this artificial, yet crucial, fallacy he had sculpted. Experiencing genuine emotion was not something Sherlock Holmes was used to and I, above all, knew this. That is why I was not going to thrust him into it so quickly. For the first time, Sherlock was ready to make changes in himself, I knew it. I could not risk ruining this breakthrough by rushing things. He needed time to learn to show things like guilt and sadness, as well as handle them when other people showed them. It was then that I realized that my return was no longer about me, it was about him.

.

I spent a few hours in my old study, replacing my belongings and organizing the mess that Holmes had left for me there. My study had become his since my leaving, and I was not exactly prepared to vacate him from it. God knows he needed more space for his obsessive research, and upon my return I was more than willing to let him continue using it (as long as it was still primarily mine, of course). I sat exhaustedly in my old chair, letting out a heaving breath. It was a shame that I was so tired after such brief physical activity. It seemed that fatigue had it's way with me more and more frequently. Perhaps it was a side effect of this insanity and this sadness I had been cocooned in. I had heard the saying "it's always darkest before the dawn" but now, more than ever, I was wishing that I saw the proverbial "dawn" which it spoke of.

Lost in thought, I failed to notice that Holmes had positioned himself in my doorway.

"My, my, if I do say so myself I have never seen you so run-down in my life. Or, save for, perhaps, when you were unconscious." He said, crossing his leg over the other and resting the toe of his boot on the ground gently.

I peered up at him, lacking the energy to raise my head and properly look at the man. Of course I was run-down. It was only the afternoon, but the events leading up to that afternoon in a mere 20-something hours had been the most emotionally confusing hours of my life. He was not a fool, so why did he seem like he wanted to talk about things? I was more than obviously not ready to discuss anything with him. All I could do right now was look and feel, any words were misguided and poorly gathered. As a response to this statement I did nothing but gaze.

"If looks could kill, Watson," He said through a bitter smile.

"What is it that you need, then?" I said hastily, gesturing loosely the the room around me.

"Ah, yes, well, I was wondering when you figured we would go retrieve Gladstone? I've gathered that he is either with Mary's parents, or, more likely, with my brother."

"Right. He was rather reluctant taking the hound, if I might say."

"Oh, you think I don't know that already? He's my brother, I know the man better than anyone besides himself and he is absolutely dumbfounded by domesticated animals. He must be having a grand time with our little pooch. I'm positive he would be glad if we were to take Gladstone off his hands. How does today, right now, sound?"

"You're suggesting that we give Mycroft no warning as to when we're stopping by? Don't you think that's a bit, well-"

"Exciting? Who doesn't love a surprise?" Holmes was itching to do something, I could tell.

"Inconsiderate. I was going to say inconsiderate, Holmes."

"Oh heavens no, he's my brother, I may see the chap whenever I please."

I sighed. There was no way I was going to win this one.

.

It was a shorter travel there and back than I remembered. Mycroft was out on business, but Stanley knew immediately upon out arrival that he should fetch Gladstone. Without saying a single word, Stanley led us in and had us wait in the main hallway. There was a click and slide of a door opening, and then the unmistakable sound of claws skittering on wood flooring. Gladstone came bounding down the hall, tongue slipping out of his smashed face and eyes wide. I was more than surprised to see Holmes beaming as the dog ran toward us, and made no hesitation in crouching down to greet the beast. After a few kind words to Stanley and after slipping Gladstone's leash about his neck, Holmes and I set off to return home. The ride back was so pleasant that it seemed like it had gone by in a matter of moments, despite the fact that Mycroft's London home was far across town.

We entered our rooms together, Gladstone filling a presence that I had not exactly registered as missing. It felt more complete than ever, really. It felt good enough that, for a while, I forgot about my episode earlier that day. It was now nearing the evening and Holmes and I realized that we had eaten nothing in the expanse of time we had been together. It was not uncommon for Holmes to go many days without proper food, and it was increasingly common that I forgot to eat, but for once I think we were both famished. We decided it would be best to go out to dinner than evening, and it quickly became dinner and a show. I was lost mostly in the presence of Holmes, though. If the food was delicious or sub-par, I couldn't tell you. If the play was interesting or dull, I hadn't the slightest. All I knew was that Holmes and I were able to make regular conversation about everyday things. Things he had missed, things I had done, things that had happened. It was all new and we had so much to discuss. Though, Holmes did have a way of avoiding discussion about what he had been doing. By the end of the evening my throat was dry and my cheeks were sore from all of the joy I was miraculously able to experience. It was unsettling how my mood had fluctuated just within two days. I was a creature of habit, and these changing emotions were not something I was used to.

Upon our return, it seemed nearly impulsive that we went toward the liquor cabinet. We sat together in front of the fireplace (quite close, I might add), staring into the flames and reminiscing about more of our old adventures. They really were, in the purest sense, adventures. I had met very few people in London who had experienced quite as much as he and I had. The people we met and things we saw were like stories from a book. I could never forget that day I was introduced to him at the hospital. I would never have guessed that a man who I saw merely as a potential flat mate would turn into... whatever it is we had now. And then I began thinking about it. What exactly was it that we had become? I wanted to be disgusted at myself, and at Holmes, but I couldn't. All I felt was happiness and then, in turn, guilt for being happy about such an unacceptable thing. We had kissed. Twice. And I hoped that we would kiss more, even. It scared the death out of me.

"You seem like you're having a bit of an internal battle, Doctor." Holmes noted at a pause in conversation.

It was true. I was thinking heavily of the implications of this newfangled intimacy we had set in motion. If there would be more. If we would ever discuss it. If I would ever feel comfortable with it. If we would go further. If we could live with ourselves.

"You're not a religious man, Holmes," I began.

"No, you know that, Watson."

"But I have always considered myself a good, Christian fellow,"

"Oh Watson, please, you're doubts may not be obvious to anyone else, but I see the insecurities in you."

"But I have at least considered myself-"

"Dear boy, let's not beat around the bush, what is it you're getting at?"

He knew very well what I was getting at.

"It's not right, Holmes." I didn't have to specify for him to know what I spoke of.

"Is it not? Or is it not right in society's distorted view?"

"Who's to say it's distorted?"

"I am, and if you doubt my judgements I really must reassess who I've come to believe you to be."

I didn't reply. I knew he was right. We had been through enough to know that humanity liked to tell itself that it had proper morals and just systems, but in reality it was all a big charade. I stayed silent then, gazing into the fire while Holmes watched my face closely. What on Earth was I to do? The situation was out of my hands and I knew it. Holmes was in total control of our relationship and always had been. Even if I had decided it best that it stop there and never go any further, I would never be able to back out of this new thing Holmes and I had established. Maybe what got me the most was that Holmes had probably known all along. He knew me down to my core and had more than likely pieced together the entire situation before I had time to give it any thought. I was in the palm of his hand from the very beginning, and it was times like this that I remembered just how firm a grasp he had.

"Well what do we do then? I'm sure you've figured out a logical course of action in your brain, so tell me, what in the bloody hell do we do?" I asked, staring into the fire defeatedly.

"There are things that even I cannot map out, Watson. Especially, as you may know, ones pertaining to the heart," He paused and I impulsively glanced at him.

"And what I can assess is best left unsaid."

Holmes turned to meet my gaze, a surprising look of determination on his face. I noticed that I met him with an equally determined expression, but I was not entirely sure what we were both so set on doing. There was nothing to do now other than let things happen, correct? There was nothing in our hands now that was going to fix anything, save for maybe a proper apology, but I understood that it was not of much importance at this point. He knew what he had done and he had told me so much. How could I remain mad at him? Sure, he probably deserved it after every scare he's put me through, but it was the simple (if only for it's consistency) dynamic of our relationship. It was the way things were and I was settling with this fact.

I could tell he had obviously assessed the following moment. He would lean in, knowing I would mimic him. He would breath a shallow breath into me, knowing my own breath would hitch. He would tilt his head at such an angle, knowing that I would tilt mine in a precisely perfect, yet instinctual, way. Our lips would meet for the third time, yet it would feel like a first kiss because the sensation was still new and exciting and made me feel inexplicably limitless. His eyes would be fixed low on my face, not looking at anything in particular, and my eyes would be doing that same. He knew how it would pan out, I could see it in his face, It was another thing I had become so used to reading in him. He relied on knowing me and knowing human nature and so he performed all of these actions with great confidence. It was impossible for me to take any other course of action in response to his and we were both intricately aware of it. It was comfortable, the fact that I was in good hands. Hands that almost always knew me just as well, if not better, than I knew myself.

Our bodies made contact, subconsciously connecting to each other with our hands and mouths, our tongues knowing exactly when to move and where to move. The way that it all happened so seamlessly was unimaginable. There were no hesitations made and there were no second thoughts, only a comfortable grasp on the situation. I think perhaps the most thrilling part was that we were aware of what was happening. We acknowledged that the more our mouths worked against each other, the deeper we were falling into this pit. We acknowledged how terrible the world would see the pleasure that we both experienced as he lead me low, my back hitting the rug with the softness of a down feather. We acknowledged that it would be seen as disgusting that Holmes' hand slyly untucked my shirt, pushing it up to expose my skin to the stale air of our flat. We acknowledged how far from Christian it was that he had placed a hand on the bulge between my legs, pressing against it in rhythmic intervals. My breath quickened. It felt good to have my air stolen in such a manner. It became harder to keep our mouths connected as Holmes continued to invade my flesh, the strange feeling of arousal at such intrusions flooding every bit of my body. This was not something I had foreseen when we met all that time ago.

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NOTE: Don't fret, the next chapter will pick up RIGHT where this one left off. I know how most of you are, you lovely creeps.


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